


To Fix It (ABANDONED)

by FirstOfAllImSorry



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Character Death Fix, Fix-It, No I didn’t proof read, OC’S - Freeform, more tags to be added soon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-06
Updated: 2020-01-06
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:47:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22152016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FirstOfAllImSorry/pseuds/FirstOfAllImSorry
Summary: **ABANDONED**(I’m using this idea and character for a fic called Red Dead Redemption II (alternate Edition) that I planned better)It’s several dilapidated cabins clustered in the middle of a lonely, snowy clearing. He’s never seen it before, He’s sure of that, but the name still perches on his tongue and bounces out of his chattering teeth on reflex.“C-C-Colter.”A personalized video game character is the new protagonists of a future Red Dead Redemption game where the player is allowed to save their favorite Red Dead characters. Not that Nic knows that. He only knows that when the man with the cracking voice, who’s name he inexplicably knows, asks him why he’s here, his only answer is “to fix it.”
Comments: 1
Kudos: 5





	To Fix It (ABANDONED)

**Author's Note:**

> A little preview I whipped up of a fic I’ve considered writing for a while. Hope you enjoy :)

  
  


The snow muffles any sound. Nic stands in peaceful silence, watching the hypnotic twirling of the snow as it glides to rest on the sparkling ground. A bit of twilight has sneaked past the clouds and dances over the crystals as it fades. Massive pine trees stand centry over the dozing forest, heedless of the layers of ice and snow bending their overburdened branches toward the ground. The only color besides the brilliant white of the snow is the deep grey of their trunks, cutting through the white like razors, the whole scene washed in under-saturated yellow as the sun sets behind the purple clouds.

It’s beautiful. He breathes a contented sigh and sees that sigh in front of him curl into mist and drift lazily to the left before dissipating entirely. It must be very cold for his breath to linger like that. He pulls his collar up to cover his neck more thoroughly when a curious snowflake kisses his neck. He must have forgotten he was cold. Or, maybe, He’s just become cold. Was he cold before? he crosses his arms in front of myself, feeling the bite of the air fully now, and looks around. Nothing but forest and snow.

How did he get here?

His head whips from side to side, more frantic now, looking for an answer, waiting for his memories to return, but they don’t. Every tree looks the same: covered in snow and completely unfamiliar. Every direction looks the same: no path, no markings, no nothing. And, when he stops and stands still, hugging himself and trying to control his panicked breathing, no one comes through the trees to collect him and tell him where he is. he’s just turning sad little circles in the woods. Alone.

He sniffles one last time and wipes his runny nose on his sleeve. He can feel his lip wobbling and sets his jaw to stop it. Ok. Freaking out won’t help anything, and if he cries any more he’s liable to freeze his face off with his own tears. It’ll be dark soon, and he can’t stand here all night. First thing: find shelter. He’ll worry about everything else later.

he lifts his foot to take a step then lowers it again, something occurring to him. He looks behind myself, lifting his arm to see under it and right behind his own feet: no footprints. He looks in front of himself: no footprints. He’s standing on an island of crushed snow with no other evidence of life in sight. But, he had to have left them when he walked here? Did he walk here? Was he dragged here? No, that would leave marks on the snow too. Then how the hell did he get here? he can feel the hysteria bubbling up his throat again as fresh tears prickle his eyes and his breathing speeds up. He steels himself and takes a breath. It doesn’t matter how he got here, anyway: all that matters is finding shelter. He’ll worry about everything else later.

He doesn’t know in which direction to walk, so he chooses to climb to the top of a big hill and hopefully see some sort of.. he doesn’t know.. Something. The snow goes up to his mid-shin, so he has to lift his leg awkwardly high to free each foot as he takes a step, which gets real old, real fast. As he climbs, eyes on his feet to avoid tripping over some unlucky rock or branch that’s been smothered by the snow, his jeans get damp, then wet. By the time he gets to the top of the hill, his boots and jeans up to his calves are soaking, and he’s starting to breathe hard, the air puffing visibly in front of his face. Between the scraping of the snow under and around his boots and his ragged panting, he must be the loudest thing for miles. It makes him feel conspicuous. Exposed. Vulnerable.

Halfway to the top, he rests in a shelter made by the yawning branches of a pine tree, partly because he knows the snow is shallower here and partly because some animal instinct is pushing him to get out of sight after the racket he’s just made. He leans on the trunk and huffs, glaring at his own boots on the tilted ground. He’s barely half way up and ready to quit. Fuck, he hates snow. Horrible, ugly stuff. It’s starting to fall even thicker now. And, without the crunching and panting, he can hear the wind whistling distantly. The weather’s about to get worse. And it’s getting darker.

He steps back out and keeps moving, the cold invading his entire body through his poor, soaking legs. Despite the physical effort it takes to move forward, the exercise doesn’t warm him up in the least. In fact, he feels himself getting sluggish as his trek goes on. He curls in on himself more, desperately clinging to whatever warmth is left in his body, and he loses the willpower to lift his feet completely out of the snow, settling for just dragging them through.

He expects to feel relief when he reaches the top; instead, he gets smacked in the face by sharp, icy wind and snow. The cold wind scrapes its icy fingers over his cheeks, and ice crystals bite at the raw skin. He didn’t know it was possible to get colder, but it cuts right through his coat and down to his very bones. All he sees is falling snow when he turns in more sad little circles at the top of the hill. The wind is getting harsher, whipping the snow into a frenzy, limiting his visibility even further. What If he can’t find shelter? It’s getting colder by the minute! He’ll go back to the pine tree and freeze under there. They’ll find his body all curled up and frosty. He turns in faster, sadder circles, panicking. The world blurs around him, and all he sees are trees and snow and snow and trees and more snow and- there!

He freezes (no pun intended) and squints through the twisting white and grey of the coming storm. He could have sworn.. When the wind changed directions there was something- yes! A glimpse of something through the chases of snow. A glimpse of something not trees in the distance, down the hill. He makes for it, hope and desperation invigorating him. He half-runs, half-stumbles down the hill until the not-a-tree is close enough to see through the billowing snow and last scraps of dying light.

It’s several dilapidated cabins clustered in the middle of a lonely, snowy clearing. He’s never seen it before, he’s sure of that, but the name still perches on his tongue and bounces out of his chattering teeth on reflex.

“C-C-Colter.”

**Author's Note:**

> Please comment if you want this finished; I’m not sure if anyone’s gonna read it. Also, constructive criticism or suggestiongs about where you want the story to go is encouraged. I’m here to be a better writer :)
> 
> Thank you!


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